I remember falling¬¬¬¬
out of a pear tree at seven,
playing Follow the Leader
with my older sister.
Off a bicycle onto gravel,
grass and blacktop
unable to push through the wobbles.
Solid on my tailbone in the Crystal Theater.
(Mouse Merriman thought it funny
to fold my seat up when I wasn’t looking)
During a high school field trip to Chicago,
first time maneuvering high heels and an escalator,
I fell down the up staircase.
Busy reading the bio of the visiting conductor,
missed the curb outside the Schnitz. Stumbled,
parted the crowd flailing, perfect four-point landing.
Over backwards from a ladder holding a full pan of paint,
Martha Stuart butter-cream yellow splattered
like a Pollock painting on kitchen cabinets and floor.
The tumble off that sloped-roof
shed behind the barn
doesn’t count. I was pushed.
About the Author: Pat West
Pat Phillips West lives in Olympia, WA. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, her work has appeared in Haunted Waters Press, Persimmon Tree, VoiceCatcher, San Pedro River Review, Slipstream, Gold Man Review and elsewhere.